I'll Do What She Waunts
by moonyprof
Summary: Wendy finds a bag from Frederick's of Hollywood in Cartman's room and dresses him up. WendyCartman, language, and implied kinkiness.


I'll Do Whut She Waunts

A short fanfic for oneirogenic's little Cartman/Wendy pic

Matt Stone and Trey Parker own South Park and all the characters therein. Oneirogenic owns the pic this fic is based on. The rest is my own twisted imagination.

Cartman had only been dating Wendy for about a month when it happened. Figuring out how to get her had been tough, tougher than unloading 32 rapidly deteriorating primo quality fetuses, tougher than crapping out fifteen pounds of smuggler's gold that turned out to be worth 14 bucks and hurt like hell. Whether you want ten million dollars or world domination or just plan on exterminating a few Jews in your spare time, persistence pays. You can try the direct approach or flattery or sneakiness, and it never hurts to be willing to go lower than anyone ever thought possible, even for you. The problem is that nothing guarantees success in love. . . and all that mushy kind of crap. To be honest, in the end, _she _was the one who had backed him up against the lockers after school, pinned him, and said, "So, how about it?" It was kind of unnerving.

And it had been terrific, better than he'd dreamed. _She_ liked it that he was festively plump. _He_ liked it that their public displays of affection really pissed Stan off, which really pissed _Kyle_ off, and in general set off a chain of human misery that just made the whole day worthwhile.

So naturally, he was worried that he might fuck it up. And finding a whole bag full of stuff from Frederick's of Hollywood stashed behind Clyde Frog and Polly Prissypants—well, that might fuck things up.

No one really likes to hear the question, "What's _this_?"

Excuses barreled into his mind like a whole line of Peppermint Hippo dancers.

"Umm—gift for Mom?"

Believable, right? I mean, everyone knew his Mom was kind of skanky, no big secret there, right?

"Nice try, Eric, but your Mom doesn't wear a size 2X."

NEXT. "Oh, right—that's left over from the big metrosexual craze."

She shook her head, long, black hair, God, gorgeous, nope, damn. "That was nine years ago. These still have tags on. And _besides_," big blue eyes stabbed him, right through the eye, down into the gut, "no one wore a _corset_ back in the big metrosexual craze."

"Uh. . . ah. . ."

"Eric, you like dressing up in women's clothing, don't you?"

He was sticking to his story, goddammit. "No. That would be Butters."

"Butters has only worn women's clothing three times in his life, and twice you bullied him into it."

"How do you know?" he snarled defensively, grabbing the loud red bag out of her hands.

"Because Bebe tells me everything. Believe me, if Butters had anything in his drawers more exotic than tighty whities, I'd know about it."

Goddamn girls, I HATE those hos, just—really—hate 'em.

"Well—maybe they _are_ a gift. Just not for you," he snapped. _Oh, shit. That was probably not the right thing to say. _

Should he be insulted that she just snorted with laughter?

He screwed up his eyes and dug deep down into the bullshit mine. When he opened his eyes, one of two things would happen: he would have the Queen Mother, the Godzilla bullshit excuse, or the whole damn thing would be over and his big fat heart would be ripped to shreds and bleeding all over the plush pile and he could put that energy into pretending he didn't care, and in fact, breaking up was all his idea, bitch.

But when he opened his eyes, there were hers, huge, wide, hypnotic, and there was nothing left in his brain at all. Goddamned brain. He was going to have to kick its ass later for this. And she was saying. . .

"_You know_," she was saying, "_I would really like to see these on._"

Nononono. "Wendy, I do NOT dress in women's clothing."

"You did on Maury Povich."

"That was for a prize."

"You did when you dressed up as Britney Spears and danced around with that cutout of Justin Timberlake."

"That was when I was _confused_, dammit."

"I don't think anyone else was confused. Even Butters seemed to register that yes, you were dressed like a girl."

"Wendy, I do NOT dress in drag." _Oooooops._

"If you didn't, you wouldn't _call _it drag, sweetcheeks." _Yeah_, he thought, _definite tactical error._

She was rummaging around in his closet by now. "Ooo, you even have _shoes_!" She turned around, all happy and excited and rosy; she looked like a goddamned _toothpaste_ commercial. "Aw," she coaxed, "come on."

"Neuw!"

"EEEEE-ricccccc. . . " Aw, crap, what a terrible whine, it made you want to throw up your hands and give in, just to listen to it stop. Who the hell whines like that? He sulked.

"Whut-EVA."

"Now, _that's _a good boy. Here. Knickers on first. I promise not to peek." He did _not _believe her. "Now, just slip into those fence-net stockings. . . and that nice mesh blouse."

She dressed him up and he felt as though he were Polly Prissypants. Which was weird, because Polly Prissypants was just a little doll, and he was so damn big, and Wendy was so much smaller, and he was as helpless and mushy as a toasted chocolate pastry mix butterball.

"Goddamnit, ho, don't pull that corset so tight; if I'd known you were gonna get all twisted and kinksome on me, I wouldn't have eaten all those Cheesy Poofs," he yelled.

"Aw, honey, " she purred, blowing into his fluffy brown hair, "you've just got more bounce for the ounce and more mile for the money."

_Where the hell did she get something like that? _"Where the hell did you get something like that?" he demanded.

"Bella Beretta," she said casually. "Big burlesque queen in LA." She yanked around in his dresser drawers. "Oooo, goody, thought so. Sit down, it'll make it easier to get those false eyelashes on."

He knitted his brows and tried to look as scary as possible. "I am NOT letting you put makeup on me, woman. I have had _enough,_ bitch, and you are gonna get down in that kitchen and bake me a pie, or else I'm gonna. . . "

"_SIT DOWN._"

He sat down, staring straight ahead at the makeup mirror she had _also _pulled out of his closet, and who was gonna clean all this up, anyway? Not that she didn't do a nice job.

"Okay, I'm gonna use a slightly darker blush down here. Suck in your cheeks, I'm gonna try to give you some cheekbones."

"EY!"

She grabbed his jaw and pinched his cheeks in. "I said suck in your cheeks. Aww," she added, and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

Well, damn hell.

"No," he said, as she reached for the Benefit lipstick—Bachelor Pad, his favorite color.

"No? Come on, Eric, what the hell is your problem. . . .we're practically done here!"

"I said NO, ho," he said testily. "You _don't _put on the lipstick first. Don't you know anything? You have to put on the lipliner first, and that isn't even the right color. You _have _to put on the lipliner first, because if you don't it gets all. . . "

_Whoops. _

". . . .uh, you know, feathery and stuff. . . .that's what Mom says."

Wendy was giggling helplessly by now.

"You kill me Eric, you know that? You aren't going to admit that you like this, are you?"

"You bet your butt I'm not." _Hmm_. _A little extra fullness on the bottom for that Clara Bow look. Sweeeeet. _

He looked at himself in the mirror. _Still the most out-of-control girl in South Park!_ he thought.

Her arms slipped around him and her chin rested on his head. He glanced up at her, then back at the mirror.

_Uh, maybe not. _


End file.
